What thing is that, nor felt nor seene Till it bee given? a present for a Queene: A fine conceite to give and take the like: The giver yet is farther… - William Strode

Returne my joyes, and hither bring
A tongue not made to speake but sing,
A jolly spleene, an inward feast,
A causelesse laugh without a jest,
A face which gladnesse doth anoynt,
An arm that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print, And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that’s lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule, A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse Which thinke on all things, nothing choose, Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.

Here silken twynes, there locks you see—
Now tell me which the softer bee?

Be silent you still musique of the Sphears,
And every sense make haste to be all ears,
And give devout attention to her aires,
To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers
Of pious votaries; the which to heare
Tumult would be attentive, and would swear
To keep lesse noise at Nile, if there she sing,
Or with a happy touch grace but the string.
Among so many auditors, so many throng
Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs,
O let me have an unespied room,
And die with such an anthem ore my tomb.